


believe me, yours faithfully

by hannahnyrie



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Epistolary, Eventual Smut, F/F, Fluff, Light Angst, Love Letters, Soft Eve Polastri, Soft Villanelle | Oksana Astankova, Soft confessions, Villaneve, don't look at me i'm yearning, post 3x08
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:34:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24671662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahnyrie/pseuds/hannahnyrie
Summary: There are no endings with you.Eve and Villanelle part ways on the bridge, return to their lives, and write each other letters.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 113
Kudos: 375





	1. toi, dans le nid de mon cœur

_It’s one look, across a distance. Eyes are lazy; the river, the air, and the moon breathe out in respite. It’s a look of return, emphasized by tangled night air. Then suddenly: where have they gone - the bridge, the road, the breath? The world seems to mingle with inner thought, seems to abandon logistics. The sky will fall, the stars will plop into the thick blue, and it will be like watercolors, raining and crying and sliding down some forgotten canvas. The water has to drip down, to find and define the colors. You have to be thankful for the fall._

_It’s pure water running across the bridge, and it’s color running to meet it. Who is who, does not matter; it is interchangeable, like interwoven souls, one and the same. The drop of color into water to brighten it; the drop of water into color to distill it. How easily one thing affects another: the quick distortion leading into transformation, and then renewal. The mindless authenticity of arms wrapped around the whole of another person, brushing an endless spine._

_Their steps assault the walkway - pounding pounding pounding - baby hairs flicked by the wind, cheeks warm with movement. So close to losing one another - too close. So they close in on each other instead, chasing away the rational mind and all of its blinding obligations. Weightless and airy, they grasp shoulders, hips, neck. Face meeting face. The way the soul tends to abandon the body in such moments: a complete separation with poor execution, because it only emphasizes one in the absence of the other._

_Eve cradles the body before her, feels the way soft skin whimpers under her touch. The pad of her thumb sliding a slow journey up and down a muted neck; roundtrip. The bubble of a gulp beneath her palm, then the sweet collapse of a giggle. Her vision becomes loyal to the game, conjuring swirls of color along the expanse of the yellow raincoat. A whole scene, right before her eyes. The raw sense of beauty causes her to shake. Slow arms tighten in response around the length of her waist._

_Four lazy eyes, bright with the moment, puddled with warm salty water, waiting for the wind that will propel them forward. Villanelle tucks a loose curl behind Eve’s ear, skimming over skin that is growing steadier by the moment._

_“Never tell me that again,” Eve whispers, speaking over the night._

_“What?”_

_“You said ‘don’t turn.’ Do you think I don’t want you?”_

_They aren’t ugly - the words. In a different context, yes. The push-and-pull of ‘you love me’ and ‘love has to let you go,’ are often toxified in storms of possession, prioritizing carnal want over the heart’s innocent need._

_“I know a part of you does. I thought the rest of you would keep walking,” Villanelle zones in on the pupils opposite her, “You asked me to make it stop.”_

_Eve sinks into her, deeper. Leans her face right above Villanelle’s chest, forehead almost resting against her pulsepoint. Listens intently, hoping for instruction from the clean rhythm of thumps. A hand threaded into her hair and another set against her lower back. Shellshocked and lulled all at once; an acute daze. Are there multiple parts to Eve, like Villanelle says? Damn them all, Eve thinks. Damn them all for muddling and confusing what is really quite simple._

_“I’ll just be my heart, then.” Eve tastes the poetry on her tongue and hates it, but it’s out._

_Villanelle smiles.“Clarify that one for me, Eve. You’re being very profound. Be careful, or I’ll cry all over your beautiful outfit.”_

_Eve shakes her head, expelling a small laugh against Villanelle’s chest. She lifts her head and raises a hand to cup her cheek - a familiar hold._

_“I’ll be the me who wants you. Because it’s really been overshadowing the parts of me that don’t,” she pauses and whispers, “I think they might even be dead.”_

_Villanelle laughs, but then grows serious. “You didn’t answer me, you know. When I asked if I ruined your life.”_

_Eve stares at her intently. Her eyes skim the surface of a burnt out sun. Blonde hair, pale skin, within her reach. She momentarily lapses into herself, thinks about how grateful she is, maybe even how lucky, to have this person at her fingertips. Does that luck extend to Bill’s death, to the scar on her back, to Kenny, to Niko, to the weak remnants of her old life?_

_She almost jumps at the realization: these memories don’t light up. Yes, there was goodness in her past life, an abundance of it, but this new life brings color alongside the wreckage. Brings an obscene order to the chaos. Always has._

_She feels Villanelle playing with her hair, smoothing it down. Her eyes are wide and even funny; she is playful. It’s an innocent love of Eve’s hair. It’s too endearing, as Eve wills herself back to the moment, out of her reveries. She has to answer this vulnerable question, and she has to answer it righteously._

_“No, Villanelle. You didn’t ruin my life. How could you?” She stops, allows a tear to slip. “It wasn’t about me or my life. It was about you. To hell with myself, I wanted you. I still do.”_

_She is surprised to see Villanelle crying now too, and is doubly surprised to see Villanelle’s eyes cast down to her clothed chest._

_“I’ve thought about how beautiful your breasts must be,” she sighs, pupils darkening unlike Eve has ever seen. It hits her; rattles her. Never has she felt wanted like this, despite years of marriage._

_And she decides to give in, to sprint away from the lingering debris of her past self, not bothering to clean it up or to save anything from the wreckage. It’s all marred with denial, anyway._

_Eve loosens her hand from the warm cheek, and drags it slowly down, until it is cupping Villanelle’s breast through the raincoat. Villanelle groans and buries her head in the crook of Eve’s neck, shivering. She mouths at Eve’s neck, slowly and luxuriously, without desperation._

_Who are they, without desperation? What happened to the chase?_

_It’s better now, Eve decides. It’s better now, with this warm weight beneath her hand. It’s better to have Villanelle’s tongue lavishing her neck, to feel Villanelle giving herself over completely. Eve wraps an arm around her back, pulls in tightly, overwhelmed with control, and how it makes her feel._

_“I’ve always wanted to take care of you,” Eve sighs, “Please let me, Oksana.”_

_Villanelle whimpers, and it sounds like the whine of a child, and Eve just holds her closer, buzzing with tenderness._

_They hold each other, they moan into each other’s necks, they stare into each other’s eyes, and they drink in the other’s presence. Then they leave, parting ways on the bridge. Armed with the promise of a new beginning; of countless endings that will never happen. It isn’t safe yet. They trade numbers, addresses, any coordinate that will lead them back to each other._

_One always remembers it: the first time night feels more like day._

Granada, Andalusia

March 11 

Dearest Eve,

Is it the bridge that you are missing? Do you remember the river under us that night? I do, but I don’t think I remember any waves. I think it was calm. What did it feel like to you? 

Please tell me you remember: how we looked back at each other. Tell me you remember my face, and the air around me. Tell me you saw me - just once, that you saw me. Even at night. Even under the moon.

I’m back in Spain, Eve, in a garden. Loads of flowers staring at me, like they have the right. 

I went for a walk, before my flight. All over the city, ducking around buildings, closer and closer to the bridge. I didn’t get too close, didn’t let myself see it. You weren’t there. I was on your side though - the side you walked off, away from me. Where did you go? I liked your arms around me. 

Eve, you are warm. Allow me that. I am a bruised winter scene: cold logs brought into the home, sparked, and coaxed into warmer life. It was London, wasn’t it? When I first felt your hand on my back. After a million years of only my hands on you. It was the best I’ve ever felt. 

I don’t mean to sound like this, I hope I’m not disrespecting you. I just needed to talk to you, and I didn’t really want the immediacy of a phone call. There’s only one kind of closeness that I want with you now. _Toi, dans le nid de mon_ _cœur_.

Remember what I told you in Rome. Remember it by itself, without the aftermath. There are no endings with you. 

Believe me,

Yours faithfully,

Oksana

New Malden, London

March 16 

Dear V, 

One too many mornings without you. 

You say I’m warm - what does that leave you? Don’t call yourself winter. There are seasons, Villanelle, and they rotate and change the world in their due course but they are not alone. They live and die through each other. 

I remember the bridge and I remember blue lights. I remember your colors. How you felt. Can I call you beautiful? I’ve never done this before. 

If Spain makes you as happy as Paris, then I’m glad you’re there. I’m imagining you shopping, buying everything you want - all of it designer and gorgeous. I can see you getting into a silky bed each night, eyes drifting to sleep, body relaxing. Please tell me you’re happy. I miss you. I love your letter. 

I went home, after the bridge. I went home and I didn’t need wine. I laid down in bed and I felt you all over again. I felt it all. I laughed, because I thought about all the normal people crossing the bridge, side-eyeing us as we groped each other. I laughed because a few minutes before, I categorized myself as one of them. I much rather be the one in your arms. 

I liked running through the night towards you. I liked your shitty oversized raincoat. I liked seeing your hair up, and knowing what it looks like down. I liked listening to you breathe. 

Can we see each other soon? I’m meeting Carolyn in a few days, to work something out. I’m assuming you haven’t been in contact with Konstantin? Please let me know. Anything to get back to you. 

And yes, I can remember Rome now. There’s pain there, but then there’s you telling me something. I can’t forget that. I’ll tell you too, someday. 

Please tell the flowers hello for me. I’m glad they’re keeping you company.

Yours,

Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello hello I've had this idea for a long time - I'm a sucker for love letters. I've been reading the letters between Virginia Woolf and Vita Sackville-West and perpetually musing on Villaneve, so here we are. Villanelle wrote Anna an obscene number of love letters, and so naturally I spiraled and imagined what her letters to Eve would be like, and vice versa. I'm hoping to interweave prose and letters (although currently the prose is drastically outweighing the letters) in future chapters. Any comments and/or feedback would be greatly appreciated! 
> 
> While writing this fic, I mainly listened to Diamonds and Rust by Joan Baez. 
> 
> Tumblr: @prepxn
> 
> :D


	2. the idiot in the flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve and Carolyn speak in the rain. Villanelle speaks to the flowers.

Granada, Andalusia

March 21

Sweet Eve,

I didn’t know I had colors. Is that really what you remember? Not my beautiful face? Tough crowd.

I picked a bunch of flowers today, and I told them all about you. I think their petals curled at the sound of you. I brushed them with the edges of my hair, before telling them how much better yours would feel. Some specks of dirt in their centers, and some honey residue from bees. The dirt swims in the honey, breaking into little pieces, like dots. And they’re so tiny, you know? The whole flower is nothing, but it holds all of these pretty contradictions. 

This is what you do to me, Eve. No, I haven’t done much shopping. I haven’t left the house much. I like sitting in the garden, listening to the wind, and thinking of all the different ways to shout your name. Do you still hear me?

I want to know how many times you’ve seen me. Tell me what you’ve seen. I can’t tell you myself, because I’ve never lost sight of you. I think there may have been more gaps in your vision, though. I know you had to take more time, before letting me in. I’d wait forever. Please take your time. 

I liked your arms around me, and how gentle you are. I miss you so much. Yes, talk to Carolyn. Tell her about the idiot sitting amongst the flowers, needing you. 

The thought of you repeating my own words to me, the ones from Rome...you lull me to sleep and you’re not even here. But, of course you are.

You’re a radiator, Polastri. I’m melting and you’re miles away. 

Believe me,

Yours faithfully,

Oksana

_ Rain sometimes falls in long drops, stretching towards both the ground and the sky, hoping to dissolve into the unbound atmosphere before bursting on hard concrete. The immediate finality of rain makes it impossible to truly watch - you can’t identify a single drop. It’s a quick, pattering sheen of clear grey uniformity. Yet, it always has an audience.  _

_ Eve sits next to Carolyn on a bench, beneath an awning, outside what appears to be an insurance agency. The slight click of a stapler intermingles with the sound of steady rainfall, culminating in an atmosphere of strict machinery - the impersonal side of life. No emotion to cast a glow over anything, no sweet words to freshen a feeling. Only numbers, and their inevitable solutions.  _

_ It’s refreshing, Eve thinks. It’s sobering to know that some things are completely unaffected by the myriad intricacies of life. Some things simply perform their function, as an end unto itself. Some other things perform their function, remaining obedient to the machine, until some piece inside loses rhythm. A replacement is needed, in the form of a new gear. When that new gear fits into place better than the original ever could - that’s where the trouble (and the stardust) begins.  _

_ And then there is an intoxication, in not opting for such complacency. The first taste of a life governed and subsequently deepened by the wants of the heart is not a taste easily dismissed or forgotten. It becomes difficult to even recall your original function. It becomes scary when you no longer wish to. _

_ Eve pulls a warm croissant out of the paper bag steadied on her lap. She crinkles the paper, entering the symphony of stapler clicks and raindrops. She taps her foot, scratches her neck. She offers Carolyn a piece, which is rejected with a wave of the hand and a no, thank you.  _

_ The awning overhead does not shield them completely, as droplets hit and bounce off their shoes. Eve breathes lightly, finding herself strangely calm. The day is grey and blurred by rain; affords no outward signs of newness, but every last detail has shifted. The buildings, the gravel, the green sprouting through small cracks, the dead, shriveled worms who’ve lost their pink life in the flow of water, Eve and Carolyn’s downward glances at their own feet. It’s all painted differently. An aesthetic unity informed by the remembrance of a tuck of blonde, wispy hair behind a pale ear.  _

_ It’s only been a few days, but when Eve thinks of the bridge, she thinks of millions of paint buckets finally tipping.  _

_ It was Eve who called Carolyn, and Carolyn seemed surprised to hear from her. Eve maintained that they were in need of a plan - all of them, and that it wouldn’t be enough to just quit cold turkey, not with everything that had gone down. They couldn’t just turn away from it all, could they? Carolyn reminded her that the dream of taking down the twelve was exactly that.  _

_ “Frankly, Eve, as I remember telling you that night,” Carolyn said over the phone, “I think your incessant dream lies elsewhere. This passion of yours does not belong to the twelve.”  _

_ Radio silence on Eve’s end. _

_ “Yes, well,” Carolyn continued, “I’ll meet you, if you so insist. Tomorrow? But, please, Eve, spare me from your roundabout ‘I want to get to the bottom of the twelve’ talk. Find a better metaphor, at least. Something less on the nose?” _

_ Eve hung up, downed another glass of wine, and went to sleep, holding Villanelle’s letter gently between two fingers. Some of the ink began to smear, blurring into grey and black smudges. Illegible or not, the words were written in immemorial ink behind Eve’s eyelids.  _

_ As she drifted into that half-space between sleep and wakefulness, she was met with the shadowed edges of Roman ruins, and slight, age-old dust sprinkling down in waves. A gunshot, maybe, ringing somewhere in the distance. Birds flying overhead, then the nearness of angry love. But the anger, like the gunshot, is subdued - barely audible. The dreamscape only remembers, and is therefore outlined by, love.  _

_ Sitting on this bench the following morning, cold rain slapping down around them, Eve tries to train her ears towards the remembrance of the gunshot, because she knows it’s somewhere inside her. The more she strains, the more she can only hear a desperate voice crying out love, engraved in her mind with astounding clarity. It seems to taunt her, in the same manner as Carolyn’s current body language.  _

_ “And how was it?” She finally hears Carolyn ask. _

_ “How was what?” _

_ “She went after you, did she not? And the hotel room? Chic as shit, was it?” _

_ “What are you-“ _

_ “Did you arrive at the bottom or top of the twelve, as they say?” _

_ Eve flushes all the way up her neck, a red road leading to her freckles. “My god, Carolyn no…we…no! Nothing happened. Nothing like that.” _

_ Carolyn just stares at her, an insistent gaze marking her features. Then it breaks off into a sigh. “Waste of a lovely night, then. Well, Eve, unfortunately I have no further assignments for you. So, if you’d like to discuss her, then really, just come out with it.”  _

_ Eve just stares at her, then says flatly, “I really don’t understand why you let Konstantin live.”  _

_ A metallic chuckle leaves Carolyn’s mouth.  _

_ “I don’t know the extent of what you’ve done all this time Eve, but I imagine there have been a number of opportunities to rid yourself of her.” A pause fills the space between them. “I imagine she’s even given you the choice.”  _

_ Eve watches a stream of rainwater carry leaves along the pavement and into the barred sewer. She grips the bench and turns to Carolyn.  _

_ “Yes, she has. So many times.” _

_ Carolyn just nods, dropping eye contact. “Then you will understand why I allowed Konstantin to leave that room.” Her voice slows and then sharpens, “I will likely never know with complete certainty whether or not he killed my son. On that roof, it was just the two of them. The moment only belongs to them, and that’s the only truth I can realistically grasp from the situation. In my head, I still want to picture Konstantin walking around, and know that it isn’t just a memory. ” _

_ “But, Carolyn-” _

_ “Eve. They can’t both become memories. That, I couldn’t live with.” Carolyn clears her throat, reaches over to the flattened paper bag on Eve’s lap, and pulls a layer off the croissant.  _

_ Eve watches her eat it, notices the slight tremble of her lips overtaking the pastry, and asks, “Did he love you?” _

_ Carolyn brushes the crumbs off her lips and folds her hands again. The rain has slowly morphed into a sun shower, and she blinks, finding herself caught in an obtrusive ray of light. _

_ “It was a long time ago.” She stands, rolls her shoulders to readjust her coat, and pivots to face Eve. “That love belongs to that time.” _

_ “But you remembered it. You remembered it when you tried to kill him.” _

_ “Well, what else is there to remember? It rules over reason, unfortunately. Always does. You can’t forget love any more than you wish to.” She tilts her head. “Eve, has anyone ever told you that you tend to project?” _

_ Eve just nods resignedly and leans back against the bench. “That, and my undiagnosed messiah complex, yes.” _

_ “Well, I’ll send you a therapy voucher along with the fruit basket.” Carolyn turns towards the splattered street, now appearing softer and somehow malleable after the rain. A few steps, and she turns back.  _

_ “Eve, if you also can’t forget, then go to Spain. You abandoned reason a long time ago, as it is. Just find her.” _

_ “Is this you releasing me?” _

_ “Christ, you sound like my daughter. Just send me a postcard. Goodbye, Eve.” _

_ “Bye, Carolyn.” _

  
  
  


New Malden, London

March 26

  
  


Dear V,

I’ve never seen you. Nowhere, everywhere. It’s beyond description - all of it. You’ve made me blind; I just see the white light of you, pale and complete. Every last inch. 

And when I say I can’t forget you, I mean I see you in everything. Yes, I’ve made you wait. Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me. I’m here now.

You dick - I’m in my shitty apartment crying, imagining you talking to flowers. Does anyone else know how much of a softie you are? But I admit, I also feel called to nature when I think about you. You’re out of London so you may have forgotten about rain, but there was so much of it today. In every drop, I saw the liquid life of your own tears, collapsing on the ground. You still need to tell me what happened, why you’re in pain. 

Of course I was gentle with you, I could feel pain written all over you.

And yes, you’re colorful. I’m talking about your beauty, again, when I say that. If you can sit and cry and talk to flowers, then I can work up the nerve to call you what you are. Beautiful, beautiful, Oksana. That girl forged from steel, and that soft heart underneath it all. And me, the idiot drinking the cheap wine, who wants you.

You’re lonely - so am I. I met with Carolyn - she wants me to go to you. Like actually told me to - insane right? I booked a flight. I’ll be there in two days. I need to hear your footsteps again, walking towards me. I need your easiness, your humor. Let me be shy again: can I say I need you?

Let Rome lull you to sleep. It helps me too. It belongs to us: our own memory. We’re not memories, though. Please remember that. 

Yours,

Eve

P.S. I noticed you evaded my Konstantin question - don’t worry, I won’t let you off the hook for that when I get there. xoxo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild smut next chapter? ;)
> 
> (Thank you so so so much for the extremely kind words on the first chapter! I love writing the Villaneve love letters, and I'm so glad you've all found enjoyment in them!)


	3. the anthem of you

Granada, Andalusia

March 28

My dearest Eve,

Thank you for your express letter.

I can’t believe you’ll be here today.

This letter will be waiting for you in London when you return home, so I’m writing for the future. A future Eve. I don’t know if I like the sound of that, Eve, because I’m always in the past with you. I’m always thinking about you, and it’s always in the space of a memory. Maybe because, in memories, I’ve always been able to find you. For better or worse, there’s no escaping memories that you take part in. A lot of them hurt, but they all house your face. And to me, that’s home. 

Stupid of me - I don’t really have to respond to your letter. You’ll be here so soon. But I’m still sitting in the garden, Eve. Flowers still looking at me, expecting my pen to move. I think they know about you now, waiting for you like I am. I’d like for us to plant a flower together while you’re here, Eve. Then, when you leave, I can take care of it. I can water it everyday, sprinkle bits of fertilizer on it, make sure the sun is hitting it, and talk to it. That flower will know you better than the others - it will know you the way I do. Can I tell it everything? If you still had your chicken, would you tell it everything? 

Pick some piece of the world, and tell it all about us. 

I’ll always forgive you, Eve, and I hope you can forgive me too. I’ve always liked that word. It’s clean, you know? Like water. Nothing sharp or dirty to ruin it, nothing to stop it from flowing between us. We can let the dam break, can’t we? What would we look like in water? An easy flow, away from the flames. So far away. An island, maybe, just us. 

I know we’re not memories - you and I, but it is nice to hear you say it. I’m glad we’re still finding life in each other. How we keep finding reasons to race back. So, maybe it isn’t the past I’m always finding you in, but rather in the return. Together once, together for always. 

I love you, Eve. I know what that is. I hope I tell you that this weekend. But if I don’t, and you’re back in your apartment reading this with the scent of me still settling around you, then hear it now. I promise, it’s real. 

I’m going to draw you a picture someday. Lots of colors. You, laying in flowers. You’d hang it up, wouldn’t you? Somewhere nice, near the entrance maybe? I’m not good at baking or dancing, but maybe drawing? I want to try for you. 

I can’t wait to see you. You’re almost here. 

I guess I wrote it down here, huh? (And in pen. :o) Look, Eve, here it is again: I love you.

Believe me

Yours faithfully,

Oksana

  
  
  
  


_When Eve walks out of the airport, towards the car that Villanelle ordered for her, she gulps in air decorated by the sweet, soft light of Spain. The driver takes her bags from her, and she looks over his shoulder, drinking in the breezy horizon marked by infinite trees and the purple ribbons of mountains. Before stepping into the car, she looks down at her feet, and sees small flowers of various colors, breaking up through cracks in the concrete. And she only sees a garden, fighting to break through the grey._

_“Beautiful day, is it not, Mrs. Polastri?” The driver asks with a lightness that seems to swim into the dreamlike atmosphere._

_“Gorgeous,” Eve says._

_The car rumbles and pulls away from the curb, towards the mountains. The driver queues up a mix of jovial Spanish music, meant for dancing. Eve twirls her hair around her fingers, letting it bounce back into place. She feels altogether light - almost dizzy with contentment. The music propels her mind back to the dance she shared with Villanelle, only a few weeks ago. The way their bodies sculpted together, and swayed to the music. How Villanelle looked at her with the sweetest smile, before moving closer to lean her head on Eve’s. How she could feel Villanelle breathing her in with shaky, excited sighs. The feel of Villanelle’s back beneath her hand, and how much it physically hurt to leave her._

_The song transitions into another, and breaking out of her reverie, Eve realizes she’s been squeezing her thighs together. She parts them, clears her throat and repositions herself on the seat. Shifting, she feels the way her excitement has spilled over. She only blushes, and trains her eyes along the scenery._

_-_

_Villanelle is filling her watering can, wearing light brown overalls with a white tank underneath, when she hears a car’s horn. She sets the can down and takes off towards the front of the house, running barefoot, feeling the grass tickle her toes. It’s a beautiful day, and the sun seems to be hitting all the right spots._

_She whips around the corner, hands padding along the slate walls. She’s standing beneath an orange tree, which sheds small green leaves around her. One of them falls into her overalls. She picks it out and holds it between two fingers, watching the driver open the door._

_Her throat bobs upon seeing the mass of curls, splayed over a...yellow and white striped t-shirt? Eve has never worn bright colors like this, at least, not around Villanelle. It fits the tone of the day - it really does. She watches Eve hand the driver a tip and wave goodbye to him. Then she is standing there alone, bag slung over her shoulder, eyes wide and searching. Villanelle leans against the tree, for a few moments simply content to watch this gorgeous look of expectancy washing over Eve’s face._

_Then her eyes find her. Eve drags her gaze up the tree, then back to Villanelle, and she laughs, and it feels like the sun has abandoned everything else._

_Eve runs up the small hill, and she feels like a child again, running around someone’s backyard in easy summer air. When she reaches the tree, she pauses briefly. Villanelle is in front of her, full and real. She wears a shy smile, and her blonde hair dances lightly in the wind. She watches sweetly, as Eve touches the front of her overalls, brushing away small clumps of dirt._

_“You weren’t kidding about your green thumb,” Eve giggles, and sighs when she feels Villanelle run a hand through her hair. Touch has taken on a new meaning between them; it feels like coming home. A confirmation of affection._

_Villanelle places her other hand on the small of Eve’s back and turns her slowly, until she’s against the tree. She brushes lightly up Eve’s arms with her fingertips, never breaking eye contact._

_“Did someone steal all your turtlenecks?” Eve laughs, peppering the air between them with the warm rise of humor. “Seriously, tell me who this asshole is, and I can put a hit out on them.”_

_“You don’t like it then? This shirt?” Eve asks, and there’s a slight vulnerability to her voice._

_Villanelle responds by moving her hands between the tree and Eve’s back, before running them soothingly along her spine, feeling the shirt’s fabric bunch beneath her fingers. Eve arches into her touch, warm breath ghosting over Villanelle’s neck._

_She whispers into her ear, “No, I love it. It lights you up.” She drags her cheek over Eve’s, lingering there for a moment, pressing in. She breathes deeply, and their foreheads roll together, and then Eve’s lips find her’s, as if looking for them. As if finding them took ages._

_It’s soft, sweet, and it just flows. Hands in hair, on cheeks, light hums and moans bubbling up to the surface. It could’ve been minutes, it could’ve been the length of familial years passed in front of a fireplace, generation after generation. Small whispers of happiness and disbelief and true, innocent wonder._

_They break apart but maintain closeness, holding onto the skin-to-skin contact as if nothing else could sustain them. Villanelle plays with the loose baby hairs on Eve’s neck, before smoothing them down, feeling the bristles hit her palm._

_“Are you hungry?” She asks._

_“Starving,” Eve responds. When she sees Villanelle nod and start to move, she stops her._

_“Can I see your garden first?”_

_Villanelle beams and nods ecstatically. “Let me take your bag.” Eve hands it to her, and likes the way Villanelle slings it over her shoulder so effortlessly. There’s something inherently masculine and gentlemanly about the act, and Eve feels the heat rise within her again - awe, excitement, and the blurry edges of bare lust. Then, Villanelle smooths her hands along the strap, gazing at Eve with blissful reverence, and it becomes deliciously feminine again. Eve feels herself falling head over heels for the contradiction._

_“Follow me.”_

_-_

_They almost have sex twice, as Villanelle gives Eve the grand tour around the garden._

_When they first step onto the patio, Eve is so overwhelmed by the lush array of flower beds and the vibrant sense of growth, that she turns and yanks the bag off of Villanelle’s shoulder, before grabbing her hips and shoving her tongue down her throat. Villanelle whimpers and grabs Eve’s back, steadying her._

_When she pulls away, Eve’s mouth races back, covering her lips once more. Villanelle hums at the fervency. She feels the lust creeping back in, and it’s strange, because she’s felt so soft about Eve lately. She’s dreamt not of physical consumption but of opening doors for Eve, saving her a seat at every table, washing her hair, putting big blankets in the dryer just before they go to sleep, so it’s warm for her. She still wants all of this, but now that Eve’s here, and her body is giving itself over without restraint, Villanelle feels the hot want settle deeply in her core._

_Then Eve pulls away, blushing and murmuring apologies, obviously surprised by her own forwardness._

_Villanelle places a finger over her slightly swollen lips. “That’s the last thing I ever want to hear an apology for, Eve. You are very hot when you know what you want.”_

_Eve just blushes more. “And you’re very hot as a gardener.”_

_“You don’t even know the half of it,” Villanelle says, looping an arm around Eve’s waist, leading her deeper into the garden._

_They walk through hydrangeas, poppies, and more varieties of roses than Eve thought existed. She listens intently as Villanelle tells her about the ones that “are a real pain in my ass” and the ones that “I want to kiss, and I have a few times... I get lonely, you know?” She’s even named some of them._

_“This is the Sixth Arrondissement, and next to him is Belgravia, and that one’s Natalia…” Villanelle’s eyes are bright, and she is completely lost in this world of natural color, nurtured by her own hands._

_“You liked creating this, didn’t you?” Eve asks, gently._

_Villanelle looks at her, and Eve can tell she asked the right question._

_“I think it’s good for me to be creating. I brought all of this to life.” She glances down at the poppies. “When they popped out of the ground, it was like they were waking up. I can’t really find their eyes, though.” She tucks a hair behind her ear, wistfully, and the innocence adds an authentic glow to her beauty._

_This time, Eve’s lips go straight for her neck. The quick movement just about knocks Villanelle over, and they giggle, as though entering a reverie together._

_Villanelle takes a turn sucking and worshipping Eve’s pulse point, as she lays under her. Eve is breathy and beautiful, when she says, “Can we plant a flower together?” She feels the smile against her neck._

_“Please.” Villanelle whispers into the air, filled with the scent of Eve and flowers, before arching up to find lips._

_-_

_After they’ve eaten dinner, and washed each other’s hair, they sit atop Villanelle’s bed, only covered by a thin sheet. Her dream, Villanelle thinks, is being realized. They’re watching a movie together, Fried Green Tomatoes (Eve’s choice). Eve attested to its heart-warming quality, claiming the whole film feels like a warm hug._

_As they ate, Eve asked Villanelle what happened to her, why she could see and feel so much pain all over her. Villanelle nearly choked on her food, feeling a warm bubble of emotion rising up her throat. Her eyes grew glassy, she could hear herself sniffle, and then Eve was at her side, rubbing her back, whispering sweet affirmations in her ear._

_“Take your time, honey.” The pet name pulls it all out of her. Everything: her mother, her brothers, the festival and the games. How she is apparently skilled at dung-throwing. Elton John, the money, the fire. The trembling hands wrapped around her mother’s throat._

_How weeks later, trembling hands wrapped around Rhian’s throat, she’d rather do anything in the world than kill her._

_She talks to Eve about Konstantin, about how part of her misses him, but how she can’t bear to see him, because of what’s become of his daughter. Eve doesn’t push her on that point._

_Now the movie ends, and the whole time Eve has kept her hands on Villanelle in some capacity: stroking her hair, leaning on her shoulder, cautiously tracing her stomach (which first struck Villanelle as weird, but then felt like the most intimate touch)._

_Villanelle moves to stand up, to turn off the television, but Eve grasps her hands - no, not her hands, her thighs. She moves lower and pulls them apart. Villanelle feels her breathing pick up, sees her chest rising and falling._

_“Eve, you - you don’t have to…” But Eve doesn’t listen, and neither does Villanelle’s body, as her hands lightly push Eve further down by her shoulders._

_It’s her first time with a woman, but Villanelle thinks it may as well be her hundredth. No one’s ever eaten her out like this before, taken their time like this. It’s as if Eve’s tongue is cradling Villanelle’s clit; wrapping around it completely, before her lips bear down in short sucks. It’s when Eve adds two fingers, stretching her in the gentlest way, that Villanelle feels the way flowers grow. It’s like she’s rising out of herself, arching up into Eve, needing her like the sun, like some far-off star: never seen, never identified, but always there, always possible._

_She comes back down to earth, back home, to the sight of Eve’s glistening face approaching her own. They both taste her in the kiss and whimper into each other, acknowledging it somehow as a mutual act of creation._

_Villanelle returns the gesture into the early morning, finding a suitable vacation home between Eve’s legs. The burning blush all over Eve’s body reminds Villanelle of pink sunsets, and she absentmindedly licks a path up Eve’s arm and to her neck, indulging in the soft skin she finds there. Eve rubs her back, sighing._

_“Where’s your off switch?” she asks, breathless._

_“Buried somewhere. Maybe chopped up into tiny pieces…”_

_“Hey, I thought you were too much of a softie for that now.”_

_Villanelle shrugs, “Does not mean I can’t reminisce.”_

_Eve’s never felt more alive, blanketed by Villanelle’s body, the buzz of what she’s done to her still flowing through her veins._

_“What kind of music do you like?” The air feels easy around them, and she wants to know._

_“Ohhh say, can you see?” Villanelle sings in an overwrought opera tone._

_“Fuck off!”_

_“What? I thought I was in bed with a patriot?”_

_“Seriously? National anthems?”_

_Villanelle beams with childish pride. “I like them because they’re sort of complete. A whole history has to be lived through, and then those people decide to look back and remember it all through a song. And then all of the people vow to sing it forever.” She pauses, and the air turns slow around them. “Until, the next history begins.” Her gaze becomes serious, somehow broken._

_“Hey, hey,” Eve whispers, bringing her hands to Villanelle’s cheeks, “Vil, there’s a history that goes beyond all the individual histories of nations. It’s just life, and it’s constantly recorded and it will never end.” Eve slows her voice, still seeing the naked, scared look behind Villanelle’s eyes. “Honey, it won’t leave you behind. And better yet, it will forgive you.”_

_Tears escape Villanelle’s eyes in quick, heavy drops. She lightly gasps for air and Eve rubs up and down her arm, keeping the other on her cheek. Eve leans down with some caution before pressing a delicate kiss to the lips beneath her own. Villanelle whimpers into it._

_“Believe me,” Eve whispers into the closeness, “I’d want to hear the anthem of you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *apologizes for my utter lack of skill when it comes to writing smut*
> 
> softies softies softies


	4. please don't leave

_ A curtain thrown to the side; light mingling with each knotty strand of the linen to create a material silver lining. The hardwood floor is cold and slick, with socks and shirts and bras scattered against it as the only hint of warmth. The light sway of flowers outside the window, breathless and obedient to the wind. The only noise is air.  _

_ The only existence, Eve thinks, is the feel of strong hands on her hips. Somehow, Villanelle is not one to move in her sleep; in the bruised light of early morning, she had laid her head in between Eve’s breasts and held onto her hips, one hand on each side. Eve stroked a hand through her hair, until she heard the light snores.  _

_ Waking up sometime around noon, they are in the same position. Upon first feeling light hit her eyelids, Eve feels Villanelle lightly scratching at her hips, releasing and relaxing her grip. When she opens her eyes and realizes Villanelle is still asleep, her heart swells. It’s a soft, literally unconscious movement, but it spells out trust.  _

_ Eve leans her head down until it is hovering right above Villanelle’s ear.  _

_ “Morning.” _

_ Bright eyes blink awake, head rolling side to side between her breasts. _

_ “Morning, Eve,” Villanelle whispers, throat raspy, “and good morning to you, and you,” she sings as she presses open-mouthed kisses to each nipple.  _

_ They laugh and kiss and roll around, until Villanelle decides it’s time to go shopping. _

_ - _

_ “Eve, please take this!”  _

_ “Nuh uh, no, not when I saw all those muscles in action last night. You can handle this.” _

_ “Mmm, you’re asking for it, Polastri.”  _

_ They had spent a brisk afternoon walking down streets pampered by Spain’s dutiful glow, accumulating bags upon bags of jewelry, clothing, food, and a massive panda stuffed animal, that Villanelle had insisted upon. When they finally get back to the house, Villanelle can barely be seen, arms filled with the damage. Eve sways peacefully alongside her, only holding a small paper bag of cherry seeds.  _

_ They originally intended to plant a flower together, but the botanist at the store had delivered a surprisingly poignant speech on the act of planting a tree with a lover. Year after year, rings upon rings of renewed wood. A process of mutual growing.  _

_ Villanelle makes it to the kitchen and drops the bags with a theatrical sigh. She is allowed little time to catch her breath, before she finds herself pinned to the counter, Eve’s nose against her own.  _

_ “You’re cute, you know that?” Eve asks, whimsically.  _

_ “Cuter when I have assistance,” she says, before delivering a light squeeze to Eve’s ass.  _

_ Eve releases the softest moan before saying, “You buying that stuffed animal. You’re like a kid. You would’ve thrown a tantrum if I said no.” Villanelle drops her mouth to Eve’s neck, drawing a panda eye with her tongue.  _

_ Eve gives in to the sensation, before suggesting they move to the bedroom. They practically race there, hand-in-hand. It’s freedom, and it’s sweet carelessness.  _

_ “Shit,” Eve whimpers when Villanelle has her up against the door, playing with the hem of her shirt, “I have to pee.” _

_ Villanelle laughs against her lips. “I shall patiently await your return.” She runs to the bed, practically launching herself onto it, before folding her arms behind her head in relaxed abandon. Eve shakes her head, pulling herself away from the sight. _

_ The master bedroom’s bathroom is almost as impressive as the room. Brilliant, sleek, black tile walls up and down. It’s so dark, but somehow clean - almost pure. Eve sits on the toilet, head bouncing lightly, thoughts in the clouds.  _

_ It’s a split second realization, the sort of moment that almost feels imagined, when she notices that one of the small tiles directly in front of her is loose. She flushes the toilet, pulls her shorts up and moves closer to the inconsistency.  _

_ “Villanelle will be pissed,” Eve thinks with a warm giggle, imagining the woman coming face-to-face with a design flaw in her own home.  _

_ She taps her fingers against it with no particular goal in mind, and is subsequently surprised when the whole piece falls off, revealing a hollow space behind it. No, not entirely hollow, but filled with pitch black metal. Pieces of pitch black metal.  _

_ Eve isn’t initially surprised to find a gun cabinet (and a rather well-concealed gun cabinet at that) in Villanelle’s house. She runs her fingers over a few of them, subconsciously hoping to absorb memories that only belong to Villanelle, even wet, red ones. She pushes a loose silencer to the side, and the movement propels one gun out of the space altogether; it clinks down on the tile next to Eve.  _

_ She picks it up with the mindless intention of placing it back in, but she stops. The gun is small. The sort of small one remembers. She rolls it around in her hands, almost afraid to look directly at it.  _

_ When she does look, the scar on her back seems to shout.  _

_ “Eve, do you need tums?” She hears Villanelle call from the bedroom. Eve feels a numbness creeping into her, rolling through her veins. She stands up solemnly, holding the small, almost square gun in her right hand, and walks cautiously out into the room. _

_ Villanelle lies stark naked on the bed. Her eyes are gentle as they hover over Eve, and then they brighten for a moment with playful excitement at the sight of the gun. Her eyes linger for a split second longer, and Eve can almost see the way her pupils rattle. Villanelle looks inane, dumbfounded, and ultimately scared.  _

_ “Eve-” _

_ “Please tell me why you still have this.” _

_ “Eve, I...I was trained to keep them all, after missions-” _

_ “Why the fuck do you still have this?” Eve looks frantically around the room at nothing, chasing her own heartbreak. _

_ “Habit.” _

_ Eve just stares at her, mouth slightly agape.  _

_ Villanelle speaks faster, “Habit as in, it’s safer for me to keep them. I wasn’t even thinking, Eve, I just threw it in there with the rest of them.” _

_ Eve’s face is quickly morphing into a scowl. “Yeah, I know you weren’t thinking.” _

_ “Did you not have a nice time with me this weekend?” _

_ For a flicker of a moment, Villanelle thinks she sees Eve’s eyes go soft, slightly, around the edges. She can almost see the surrender - no, not that. It can’t be that anymore. This war can’t seep in again, muddying everything, not after the bridge. The thought is short-lived, as is the light note of relent Villanelle may have seen cross Eve’s face.  _

_ “It isn’t fair for you to ask me that now,” Eve steadies her voice, “I’m gonna go.” _

_ Villanelle feels her heart drop, ripping through her, shredding her insides. “Wait, Eve, please-” her voice shudders and cracks. Eve offers no response and begins a calm walk around the room, picking up her discarded clothes and folding them messily into her duffle bag. She looks at herself in the mirror and ties her hair up, and Villanelle feels the action’s inherent spite. Suddenly, they lock eyes through the mirror. _

_ “Don’t cry,” Eve says, and Villanelle feels her head spin upon receiving this odious new tone. “I’ll be back, you know?” There is nothing soft, but something frighteningly sincere to Eve’s voice. “It’s not even up to me - I always just drag myself back to you!” The words possess all the venom of a shout, but her voice is barely above a steady whisper.  _

_ The idea of Eve being suddenly consumed by this warped, vicious sense of self-awareness, that may very well be their reality after all, makes Villanelle bawl unlike she can ever remember. Is it possible that, after all this time, Eve doesn’t actually want her beyond a primal want that she can’t even control herself?  _

_ She suddenly pulls herself off the bed and walks towards Eve, feeling off-balance and dazed. To her increasing horror, Eve is backing away from her advance with rigid intention. Villanelle can feel how wet her face is; hot, stinging tears seeming to burn through her cheeks. She messily brings her hands up to wipe them away, all while lost in the desperation of trying to keep eye contact with Eve.  _

_ She doesn’t imagine it this time: Eve’s face collapses into softness as sobs continue to rip themselves out of Villanelle’s throat. Still, there is a steadiness and a calm to her disposition, emphasizing her resolution to leave. Eve maintains the distance between them, but brings a hand up to loosely cup Villanelle’s cheek.  _

_ “Listen to me. Shh, hey. Take some deep breaths, V, you’ll hurt yourself,” Eve offers. Villanelle only thinks about how she wants to rip this calmness limb from limb. This forced distillation of feeling is revolting at the very least. She leans into Eve’s touch nonetheless, drawing in long, heavy breaths.  _

_ “You’re not evil, you’re not a monster,” Eve says. Villanelle’s eyes widen, aching for more of these words. She aches for the source of the words, that fountain she’s never been able to locate. An easy stream of clear blue that seems to form itself out of nothing, completely natural and primitive.  _

_ “But I just...I need space right now, okay? This...is a lot.” Water wells up in Villanelle’s eyes again. “This doesn’t mean I didn’t have a good time with you. Please don’t think that.”  _

_ Villanelle wraps her hand loosely around Eve’s wrist, the hand still cupping her face. She sniffles, feels small in the worst way, and whispers, “Please don’t leave.” _

_ Eve feels the harm she’s inflicting, but she also feels the gun’s presence, laying on the wood between them. This is what has always been constant about them: the warm ache of want tangled up in the uncertainty of their motives - the possibility of pain.  _

_ So much potential between them, but always swerving in a million dizzying directions.  _

_ Eve, with bitterness, feels the swell of confusion again; the inner conflict of which she does not know whether to nurse or to demolish. Both in eyesight; the gun that ruined her, and her words that may ruin them. Somehow, it’s all about the ruins.  _

_ She rubs her thumb, lightly, over Villanelle’s cheek. She’d never imagined her crying like this - never thought she could cry like this. There is an overall shakiness to her stature that suggests the beginning of a collapse, and Eve moves her other hand to Villanelle’s shoulder, trying to keep her balanced. Villanelle leans into her touch all the more, and Eve feels like little more than a wreckage.  _

_ She presses a chaste kiss to each wet cheek. As she moves away from the second, there are suddenly hands on the back of her head, and Villanelle is trying to pull her lips towards her own. Eve concedes only partly, leaning her head on Villanelle’s shoulder, hugging her.  _

_ It’s in the air: the fact of Eve’s leaving. It’s in each shudder wracking Villanelle’s body. It’s in the way Eve rubs her back, each stroke with its own intent.  _

_ “Please don’t say it,” Villanelle sobs, “You don’t have to say it.”  _

_ Eve knows exactly what she means.  _

_ The word “sorry” is incompetent if it’s between them. What is an apology? Mutual recognition of a fault? The lines have been blurred so completely, by both of them, that Eve isn’t sure she could even recognize a fault if she was asked to. Yes, it’s been vicious and mean and hot and sometimes even cruel, but its source is clean. They are two questions finding answers in each other, and true answers often hurt, don’t they? There’s a finality to truth: the realization of an end unto itself, an ending that you will always look back at, no matter how many steps you place in between. Truth will not adhere to the distance one tries to establish from it.  _

_ The pain blooms when you prioritize the steps - the running away. The truth of their relationship, Eve knows, rests deep within her, and she is in love with the space it fills. Yet, their truth possesses a history that she stills looks back at with a wince. This is why she maintains a firm grip on her bag, and a stark resolution in her eyes, even while Villanelle cries against her.  _

_ “I’m gonna go now, V,” Eve whispers into her, still rubbing her back. She feels the lightest nod of understanding caress the side of her head, and then they pull away.  _

_ - _

_ When she’s on the plane heading back to England, the regret creeps in. It’s regret, and it’s the haze of pride. Yet, it’s the sort of pride that feels fabricated from its very conception; Eve should be proud of herself, for regaining some control over her desires, but such pride has no place in matters of love. And that’s what this has become. Neither of them said it this weekend, though, but Eve gets the feeling that Villanelle had planned to.  _

_ The world feels very grey, on the flight. It’s like everything is subdued to the point of blankness, but it is not soft as it may appear. It is so inherently sharp - everything with the potential for pain. Eve stares at the seat-back in front of her and the ripples of cheap leather remind her of champagne poured into coffee mugs. Even the dim evening light coming in through the little window makes her feel ill, reminding her of beauty destroyed.  _

_ She just closes her eyes, needing to escape it all, especially herself.  _

_ - _

_ Villanelle sits cross-legged on the patio. She unloads the gun’s chamber, watches the small bullets trickle out like black water. Ripping open the bag of cherry seeds, listening to the slight rattle of metal rolling down the stones, the gun feels impossibly heavy in her hand. With the chamber still open, she pours the seeds inside, and locks it with a click. She stands, winds her arm, and throws the gun down the steep decline of her property.  _

_ Villanelle doesn’t hear it land.  _

_ - _

_ There’s an envelope on the floor, beneath her mail slot, and she almost trips over it.  _

_ “Shit,” Eve grumbles as she lets her bag fall off her shoulder, resolving to unpack whenever she gets around to it. She assumes the letter is a bill, or a divorce proceeding, or maybe even a summons. Maybe Carolyn has gone old-fashioned.  _

_ She snatches it up off the ground, rubs jetlag and turmoil out of her eyes, and reads the name. The letter almost drops out of her hands. Villanelle. Sent the day before Eve arrived in Spain. _

_ She half walks, half hovers to her bed and sits on the edge. Opening the letter slowly and solemnly, she brings it under the lamp light on her bedside table.  _

_ “I’d like for us to plant a flower together while you’re here, Eve.” _

_ “Pick some piece of the world, and tell it all about us.” _

_ “I’ll always forgive you, Eve.” _

_ “I love you, Eve.” _

_ Eve imagines the Villanelle who wrote these words, a few days ago. She remembers the Villanelle she abandoned, hours ago.  _

_ Breathing out an ineffable huff, she rips open her bedside drawer and fishes around for paper. She rips the cap off a black pen, tries to blink away the blinding tears, and lowers it to the page. _

  
  
  


New Malden, London

March 31

  
  
  


Villanelle,

I choose you over life, every time. Find me that grey area between love and obsession, find me that faraway field where the heart is free from human interference - from the voice that commands you to be normal, to subdue what is altogether real and beating inside you. 

You once told me that you want normal things. Please tell me you don’t mean that, because I need to find you out on that field again and again, where guns and knives just melt into the ground, and reemerge as soft, rosy life. I need to find you and that need fills me. 

I’ll keep finding you, always. Know that it is a choice, Villanelle - it is my choice. I hate for you to be lost, and I hate myself for giving you the impression that, in your loss, you’d have to confront yourself. You never have to do that without me. Whatever is rumbling around inside you; let me see it, let me hold it, let me in. Let that sit in you like a song. 

I’m so sorry. I need to say it. You need to hear it. You deserve to hear it. 

I wish you could hear it from more people than just me. 

I want this whole fucking world to apologize to you. This world that told you you were nothing, this world that condemns anything different. Even if difference creates otherworldly beauty. 

I love you. When I say that, I am sober-minded, wide awake. You’re the only thing that makes sense anymore. Sense only leads to you. 

I am so, so sorry. I had the best time with you. How is everything a dream, when you’re around?

Please believe me, every last word.

Love,

Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's be traumatized by the roman baby gun again!!!!!! i did not originally intend for this chapter to be so angsty, but i've been in a weird headspace these past few days, and this is apparently the result. as always, thank you so much for the continued support on this fic!
> 
> say hello on tumblr @prepxn


	5. my greatest daydream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> three cheers for a letters-only chapter!

Granada, Andalusia

April 4

Dear Eve,

You left a sock here. It’s pale, light pink, and a little stretched out. It’s still in its place, at the foot of my bed, and it’s reminding me of when I was young, when I didn’t care about clothes. I just threw it all everywhere, whenever I was angry. It happened a lot. That’s why they were always so mad at me - the people at the orphanage. The nanny for my hallway, her name was Vera. I remember how she would hit me all over and drag me by the ear to the cleaning closet. Then she’d just lock me in there, and I’d sit, propped up against the shelves, sometimes leaking blood. All the bruises, all the ways I hurt inside, would just sit with me. 

It is how I learned what true anger is, and how it ruins everything. How it makes everything sick, until it finally dies. And I know it doesn’t make sense: how someone like me could hate anger. When everything I do seems like the product of it. 

It’s just...it’s the only thing that has ever hurt me. I think it’s the opposite of love, because it doesn’t care about anyone. It is just a reaction that comes from the holes inside us. People who like themselves, people who really treat themselves well - they are never angry, because their soil is all alive, never rocky. 

When someone is angry, they need help.

Anger needs love.

It hurts to be hurt, Eve. I don’t know why life is this way - why no one can find any answers for anything, and why everything seems to skate a fine line between happiness and pain. I feel like everything has the potential to just turn on me; if something makes me happy, it can also kill me. And I don’t know when the change happens. I have no control over anything. 

I believe you when you say you love me, Eve. I know you do. It’s in the way you look at me, the way you reach out for my hand, the way you tuck hair behind my ear, and the way you run your fingers over my stomach. I know you love me because you feel like safety. Your sharpness is gone, and you’re all soft around the edges. You want to hold me, you even told me you like rubbing my back. You like kissing me, you like putting your hands on my face to pull me in closer. You like the way it feels when I’m on top of you, pinning your wrists down, and finding home in your neck. 

It’s just harder to believe that you always will. And I don’t expect you to, so don’t feel like you have to. You said you’ll choose me over life, every time. Yes, Eve, that’s what you’ve been doing, and I think it hurts you. It keeps hurting you - you know it does.

It’s a pain you must still feel because when you saw the gun again, it rattled you. You looked sickened, Eve. Sickened with me. I’m sorry for assuming that you can or should look at me any other way. I’m a mess - I don’t have to be your mess. I care too much about you. 

I don’t like me, but I’m not angry. Even the memory of your light soothes the roar. 

If you’ll give me permission, I’d like to plant our tree still. I’ll nurse it, watch it grow, remember you. You’re so good for me, Eve. I don’t know how you changed everything, but you did. 

I love you. I will, forever, but do not feel obligated to me. It’s like the bridge, always like the bridge. I will always let you go, let you leave, let you rediscover your light in the slow crawl out of the abyss. 

I don’t think this world should apologize to me, Eve. No one should, even jokingly. You are generous, in saying that I am just different. Difference is more-or-less neutral. You said we all have monsters inside us to soothe me. But there’s something sick in me, like my mother said, something dark. It’ll ruin you, Eve. It already has. I’m sorry. 

Vera from the orphanage was right to do what she did, throwing me into that closet over and over again. It gave me time to think. I knew it even then: whatever it is about me, it’s not a good difference. It’s wrong. 

You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen, Eve. You may think certain things about yourself, and you’re right, we all do have monsters inside us, but maybe there’s a breaking point. Maybe, when you let your monster take control, when you derive all your satisfaction from the monster, when you embrace it instead of hiding it - then you are the monster, and you belong to no one. 

There’s a sweet song that molds your every breath, a careful, worn harmony of morality and the feebleness that makes you human. You always hold onto the good, always look for it, even when everything’s dark. When I try to look for the good, my hands just flail around in a blank space, with nothing to hold onto. I’ve established too much distance away from it. 

I need you to stay in your light. I know you keep walking into the dark to find me, but it’s bruising you. Please, Eve, I don’t know what it is about me. Why do you keep coming back?

I’d like to meet you on that field where right and wrong do not exist too, Eve. I think there’d be so many flowers there. I want our individual worlds to swell up behind us and burst into butterflies, propelling us forward. Soft grass, pretty sky. I’d hold your hand until it all ends. 

You are everything, and that is why I can’t keep you. You’re just too good. You said everything feels like a dream when I’m around...sometimes I think you’re just my greatest daydream. I’m so proud of that. I don’t want the reality of me ruining you. I love you in the clouds, in the stars, in the broken sighs of the ocean. The earth wakes up every morning and I just see you.

Please take care of yourself. Be nice to yourself. You’re all there is. 

I’m sorry.

Your dreamer,

Villanelle

  
  
  
  


New Malden, London

April 8

  
  


Dear Villanelle,

Hold onto me. I’m not listening to a thing you just said because you are not being kind to yourself. It’s hard to even look at this letter, and the slow glide of your pen writing so meanly about who you are. Writing as if I am an angel. 

My love for you knows nothing of obligations. 

I’m glad you asked what it is about you that keeps me coming back: now I can tell you.

Somehow, I loved you before we even met. I know this because when we locked eyes in that hospital bathroom, before even knowing who you were, I felt this stirring in my chest, like something I had lost a long time ago was finally reemerging. And it felt like such a loss, V. Like all the pain in my life suddenly made sense - it was all in the absence of you. 

You’re so close to me - I only understand myself within the slow selflessness of loving another person. This is where you’re wrong, V. How could I care about saving myself, when you’re out there somewhere, sinking into yourself? I only view my own life as a vehicle that carries me to you. You’re remembering what you said on the bridge, so am I. I said it was never about me, this is what I mean. 

Whenever I tried to stop wanting you, I was just foolishly thinking about myself. Villanelle, the way I love you is hard to describe. It took me a long time to even comprehend it myself. It’s a need more than a desire - I feel a pull towards you, like I’ll fall apart if you’re not there. I need to take care of you, I need to know that you’re okay, that you’re happy. 

It is good for me, to love you. I don’t go into the darkness to find you. Every step closer to you is a step towards indescribable light. You are warm and you don’t even know it. 

What else is it about you? Have you really looked at yourself? 

You’re so pretty and it’s a soft kind of beauty. I used to think, naively, that you were just hot, but there’s something heartbreakingly innocent about your whole figure. I feel a warm rush every time I see you. Every time your eyes light up. And you’re so sweet, the way you get excited about the little things. Watering your flowers, ducking in and out of little shops, chatting with all the owners, making everyone laugh. You leave an impression everywhere you go. People like being around you. But no one more than me. Don’t forget that.

I’d like to skin this “Vera from the orphanage” alive. The thought of you, alone in a closet, thinking you deserve such pain. I’ll never let anyone treat you like that, ever again. 

I think that’s why you forget that I’ve hurt you too, because you think you deserve pain. I want to spend my life proving to you that you don’t. Peel away the layers and you’re so kind. You don’t like to see anyone hurt now. 

Yes, you’ve hurt me. Yes, I’ve hurt you. I wouldn’t change it. We just didn’t know how to handle the way we felt for each other. 

I know now. I know how to cradle your head until you slip into sleep, I know how to rub your back (yes, I love doing it), I know how to kiss your eyelids in the early morning, I know how to just look at you. Your face is the easiest answer. 

I love you. I want you. There is nothing wrong with you. Nothing has ever felt so obviously right than holding your hand in mine. 

I will find you on that field, and I think you’ll even get there before me. With this big flock of butterflies behind you. 

You are not the product of anger. You are love’s final refrain. My ending. 

Let me come back to you. (I’m very good at it).

Your best daydream,

Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feeling soft today - my only excuse for this mess.
> 
> as always, i'm on tumblr @prepxn


	6. i think it's okay to have hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***content warning for this chapter***: menstruation and mention of vomit

_ Before sending her last letter to Villanelle, Eve places a small, pink slip of paper within the fold of the envelope, with the words “don’t send another letter here, i’m coming to you,” scrawled across in fanciful lowercase swirls. She licks the back of two stamps and flattens them delicately in their place, smoothing her fingers along the corners, intent on softening any creases. The “pop” she hears when opening her pen reminds her of that steadiness that one imagines lingering perpetually in the skies, that slow force of calm drawn towards everything and nothing.  _

_ Eve writes Villanelle’s name slowly, building each letter as if she were the first to ever put them together in that order. The three syllables, the two sets of double l’s, the old poetic form it stands for. She remembers looking into the etymology of the word, accompanied by that whimsical hope that in breaking something down to its roots, there will be answers lying dormant in the soil. The word villanelle derives from the Italian villanella, referring to a rustic song or dance, which comes originally from villano, meaning peasant. Finally, villano derives from the Medieval Latin villanus, meaning “farmhand.” All distinguishing the pastoral subject.  _

_ Villanelle and her flowers. In Italy, she is a song meant for a dance, and it is a rustic performance - old and worn by the passage of years on a farm. Much like a national anthem. A humble life, close to nature, only finding extravagance in the space of a sweet song. It’s the way bare innocence always leads to a myriad of expression. It’s the way life always finds reason to build upon itself - creating something new while curing what has come to pass.  _

_ Eve finds herself viewing Villanelle as less of a contradiction and more as a totality of dependency; the way the sun needs the moon and the way dark needs light. Forever.  _

_ It’s why we need the word “sublime” - the necessity of pairing good and evil until they’re indiscernible, until all that’s left is a fluttering strain of invitation that reaches far beyond labels of base morality. The only way to establish peace with either end of the spectrum is to dismantle the barriers altogether and consider them in the same space.  _

_ When united, with no further reason to fight, one realizes that good and evil are both running from hurt, just in different directions.  _

_ These days, Eve believes her own words more and more: we all have monsters inside us. She’s had time to think, and time to consider the way she treated Villanelle in Spain. More than anything, she desperately wants to dedicate no further thought to the gun. In retrospect, it just seems absurd to focus on it, to prioritize it over Villanelle. It was a display of fear, bitten with venom and filtered through anger. Eve knows an outsider would find no issue with her reaction, in the moment of confronting the literal object of her pain. The outside world is no longer her concern though.  _

_ Since Spain, Eve hasn’t even dared to meet her own eyes in the mirror.  _

_ Villanelle’s letter hit her in the most ruinous way. She already knew Villanelle didn’t think very highly of herself, which is why Eve tried to love on her as much as possible while she was there. She spent hours holding her head in her lap, stroking through blonde wisps, pressing softly against her cheeks, trying to locate the beginning and end of her cheekbones. She loved the feel of Villanelle’s smile breaking open under the pads of her fingers. Villanelle was right - Eve just loves to feel her. Before it all, she never knew herself to be a very physical lover. There was Niko and there was the sex with Niko, but this ache for Villanelle overwhelming her entire body is completely authentic. It is an acute pain, being away from her.  _

_ It did not take many dark nights of the soul for Eve to decide to go back to Spain. She sent her letter through express mail, pressing a kiss to the envelope, and then ordered a plane ticket for the next day. She packed up her bag again, zipped it shut, and then sat down next to it on her bed, swinging her legs over the edge and sighing. Seeking out her left hand with her right, she holds it, rubbing thumbs over each other, trying to feel again.  _

_ Christ, when did she fall this deep?  _

_ It’s hard to have the memory of another person seared into your skin, and to know that you are the one that left. Eve rubs up and down her own arms, feeling the burn of embarrassment coupled with the genuine longing for touch. A spark of some remembrance flashes across her face, and she rips open her duffle. She digs around briefly before pulling out a lacy white t-shirt.  _

_ While Villanelle went outside in the early morning to tend to the flowers, Eve had stowed the shirt away, because it smelled exactly the way Villanelle did when she laid up against her in bed.  _

_ Holding it up to her face now, Eve almost thinks she can feel warmth emanating off of the fabric.  _

_ She wonders, briefly, how many times she’ll be destined to sit in this bed, closing her eyes to the thought of Villanelle.  _

_ She eventually wills herself to sleep, using the shirt as a supplementary pillow.  _

_ And when Eve dreams, she is in the clouds. _

_ - _

_ Before she knows it, she’s back in front of the house the next day, awestruck all over again by its majesty and elegance. Eve hailed her own taxi from the airport this time, and the driver was monotone with poor taste in music. Eve misses the one Villanelle had personally sent for her.  _

_ She still has the key to the house, which Villanelle had given her only one day into her initial stay. Eve was touched by the gesture, and even more so by Villanelle’s sweet comment accompanying the gift: “So you can always break into me.” _

_ The sex they had after that little scene was indescribable.  _

_ Eve bristles at the memory, feels the urge to drag her hands up her own arms again, and then feels like slapping herself across the face. She’s about to open the door when she hears light movement behind her, the soft, subdued shuffle of shoes upon grass. She whips around, half-expecting Villanelle, half-expecting some random minion of The Twelve here to finally take her out.  _

_ Instead, she is met with the sight of a postman.  _

_ “Buenos días señora!” The man smiles briskly whilst handing Eve a stack of mail, never once questioning who she is.  _

_ “Oh, gracias, gracias!” Eve smiles as he tips his cap and walks back down the hill. She sticks the bundle of mail underneath her arm before moving the key into the lock, not once thinking to knock.  _

_ She moves the door open with a push and steps into the airy foyer. The slim pillars against the intricately designed floor harness her attention once more. The natural light seems to drench the whole room, affording everything a golden hue. Eve, lost in a reverie of bright dandelions and lazy suns, allows her shoulders to drop. The mail falls in a heap onto the floor.  _

_ And she spots it: her own letter. Sitting atop some electric bills and restaurant vouchers. The two stamps in the corner, the invisible press of lips against paper. Eve scoops them all up, with her words on top. She feels bruised with some new feeling, some intense need to protect, and to correct. She locks the door behind her, leaves her duffel bag on the floor, and walks with dire intention towards the room she’s come to associate with everything alive.  _

_ Eve opens the master bedroom door slightly, poking her head in. She immediately notices a few pieces of clothing scattered about and...tissues? There are a few hand towels too, that appear to be damp and just beginning to dry. Looking in farther, trailing her vision up to the bed, she notices a slight motion to the sheets - a shaking. Beneath the silky ruffles, she sees blonde hair. _

_ “Villanelle?” _

_ The head bobs up slowly. Eve first notices how sweaty she is - hair practically matted down. When their eyes evidently meet, Villanelle’s cheeks are red and slick with the aftermath of tears. Her gaze isn’t just broken - she is wincing.  _

_ “My god, Vil, what’s going on?” Eve rushes over, sets the letters on the nightstand, climbs onto the bed and grabs Villanelle’s face, trying not to freak out over the extreme heat rolling into her palms. Villanelle groans into the touch, but the noise is marred with pain. Eve feels tears threatening to overwhelm her own eyes, looking down at pure weakness.  _

_ “Are you sick? Oh my god, you’re like burning up - are you dehydrated? I’m so sorry for leaving, baby, it was so wrong of me, and I love you, and you’re all the goodness in my life and I just want to take care of you and be with you for as long as I can and-” _

_ “Eve.” _

_ “You’re in pain, and you even told me what happened with your mom in Russia and I know it was so hard for you to open up about that and I just got scared seeing the gun again and I’m so sorry I stormed out before we got to plant our cherry tree…” _

_ Some of Eve’s tears begin to roll down and hit Villanelle in the face, mingling with her own sweaty, salty emotion, _

_ “Eve!” _

_ Eve still seems to be caught in a daze of self-reproach and deep apology, when Villanelle begins shaking her head out of her grip, as more of an attempt to pull Eve out of her headspace than to abandon her insistent touch.  _

_ “Vil, you’re sick!” _

_ “Eve! I just-” _

_ “What can I do?” _

_ “You can listen to me!” Villanelle says lightly, bringing her own hands up to Eve’s face, pulling her down into the bed.  _

_ “Okay,” Eve breathes. “Are you okay?” _

_ “Yes, I just have really bad cramps.” _

_ “Oh,” Eve says, with the light of recognition waking up her features. “Oh! You’re on your-” _

_ “Period, yes. And it’s a bitch. I always get all sweaty and unattractive.”  _

_ Eve rubs her thumb over Villanelle’s cheek.  _

_ “You just want me to say you’re still attractive, that you can only ever be attractive, don’t you?” _

_ Villanelle smiles. “No, don’t be presumptuous. I just want to know if me in pain still does something for you.” _

_ Eve’s face drops. “Vil, I-” _

_ “No, I know, Eve. You rambled it all out just now.” _

_ She cups Eve’s cheek with greater purpose. _

_ “And you’re here now, aren’t you? You came back.” Eve has never seen Villanelle’s face adopt such softness, and then their lips are pressed together, without the slightest consideration of who instigated it. _

_ “Eugh-” Eve breaks away after a few brief seconds, trying to identify whatever it is she just tasted.  _

_ “Yeah, I-” Villanelle mumbles.  _

_ “Did you throw up before?” _

_ Villanelle nods shyly. Eve shuffles in closer, pulling Villanelle’s head to her chest. She rubs her hands up and down her back, noting how soaked with sweat her shirt is.  _

_ “I’m gonna help you change into some dry clothes, okay? Do you have enough tampons or pads here-” She stops, feeling Villanelle whine into her neck, shivering.  _

_ “Mm it hurts,” she winces, moving impossibly closer to Eve. _

_ “I know, I know it does.” Eve holds her tightly, moving her hands down to her lower back, and massaging the area lightly. “I’ll get you up when you’re ready, okay?” _

_ Villanelle nods, sighing into each gentle ministration offered by Eve’s hands. They stay like that for a while. Villanelle allows herself to cry every now and then, giving in to the pain, and Eve whispers sweet encouragements into her ear all the while.  _

_ There is eventually a lapse in the cramps and Villanelle presses a kiss to Eve’s neck, before releasing her own grip.  _

_ “I think I can get up now.” _

_ “Okay,” Eve smiles, lifting herself off the bed. “I’ll help you, here.”  _

_ Eve takes her hand, and uses the other to steady Villanelle’s back. They move in complete unison towards the bathroom. While Villanelle lowers herself onto the toilet, Eve digs around in the medicine cabinet, silently thankful not to find any other arsenals disguised as design flaws.  _

_ “Okay, this is good, you have a shit ton of pads here,” Eve remarks. She pulls out a stack of four, handing one to Villanelle and setting the other three on the vanity. There is no time wasted before Eve begins preparing Villanelle’s toothbrush.  _

_ “So you can get that awful taste out of your mouth, and because I want to kiss you.”  _

_ Villanelle brushes heartily, after hearing this motivation.  _

_ - _

_ They kiss, briefly, up against the sink, humming into each other, until Villanelle feels another splitting cramp course through her. Eve feels it in the way she suddenly tenses up, and suggests returning to the bed.  _

_ “Your pajamas are in this drawer right?” Eve asks, moving her hands around the wooden space, quietly savoring the feel of expensive silk against her fingers. “V, do you have any soft clothes that you don’t care about?” _

_ Villanelle pulls herself out of her last cramp with a huff before considering the question. “Clothes...that I don’t care about….” _

_ Eve rolls her eyes, snatching a pair of silk shorts that appear slightly wrinkled and a plain grey t-shirt from the drawer. Turning around, she is met with the sight of a topless Villanelle, still shivering.  _

_ “You’re sure you don’t want a shower or a bath?” _

_ “Mm no, I’m cold.” _

_ “You’re cold because you’re sweating so much.” _

_ Villanelle just dangles her legs off the bed, staring down at her feet. Eve knows from personal experience, long nights of relentless pain wracking her insides, that sometimes the hurt can be so bad that there is no energy left even to speak.  _

_ She kneels on the bed beside Villanelle, slowly pulling the t-shirt over her head. Eve then helps her stand back up, draws her shorts down her legs, and replaces them with the dry, wrinkled pair.  _

_ “There you go. You don’t have to say anything, I know you’re tired. I’m just gonna tie your hair up - it’ll help cool you off.”  _

_ Eve positions herself behind Villanelle and gently works her hair up into a suitable bun. Villanelle breathes a sigh of relief, to have the damp hair off her neck.  _

_ “Okay, now lie down. I’m gonna get you some water so you can take a few Pamprin. Have you eaten?”  _

_ Villanelle’s eyes widen. “What is Pamprin?” _

_ “Period medication. I always carry it on me. I get terrible cramps too.” _

_ “You expect me to believe you still get your period, Eve?” _

_ “Don’t push it.” _

_ - _

_ “Pamprin is magic.”  _

_ Eve giggles, laying back against the headboard, with Villanelle sitting between her legs, leaned back against Eve’s chest.  _

_ “Can’t even feel them now, right?” _

_ “No...what’s in that stuff? Is it legal?” _

_ Eve laughs again, wrapping her arms around Villanelle’s front. “Yes, it’s very much legal. I’ll get you a few bottles before I go.”  _

_ Villanelle turns her head slightly, meeting Eve’s eyes. Her gaze is serious, and somehow scared. “When are you leaving?” _

_ Eve feels everything soften around her. “Whenever you want me to.”  _

_ Villanelle is still visibly disconcerted, and Eve is drawn back into the reverie she occupied upon first arriving. There’s sunlight in the room, and there’s heat radiating off of Villanelle, and there are flowers, lots of them, somewhere beyond the window.  _

_ And in her arms, there is still raw pain.  _

_ “Please believe me,” Eve whispers steadily, brushing a hand against Villanelle’s loose hairs, careful not to dislodge the bun. “I’m so sorry for what happened.” She pauses, carefully considering her words. “I want to stay here with you. So, when you get sick of me, I’ll go, and only then.”  _

_ Eve sees the slow rise of calm return to the face beneath hers. Villanelle takes her hand and just plays mindlessly with her fingers.  _

_ “I don’t think I could ever get sick of you. You even kiss me when I have puke-mouth.” _

_ The air in the room is light again. Eve’s bright laugh swims into the atmosphere. _

_ “I really want to see that field you talked about, Eve. The one without right and wrong.” Her words are gentle and fragile, the way a child talks earnestly about a fairytale. Eve’s heart stirs again.  _

_ “We can always find it together,” she says. “It’s more about finding it than getting there.” _

_ “What do you mean?” _

_ Eve slows her voice. “Sometimes, the search for something is better than the thing itself. If you never actually find it, then your vision is never harmed by reality. You always think of it, and it can give you peace because it’s an ideal. And I know people say idealism is bad, that you shouldn’t give in to it, but I think it can help us heal.” She pauses. “I think it’s okay to have hope.” _

_ Villanelle smiles. “Then it never ends.” _

_ “Then it never ends,” Eve repeats. Villanelle leans up and kisses her, whispering a chorus of “I love you’s,” so soft and hushed that Eve feels grateful to be allowed to hear them. She says it back, over and over again, with clean, breathy wind passing between them.  _

_ “You know, there’d be no ‘Vera’s from the orphanage’ on our field,” Eve whispers into the closeness.  _

_ Villanelle looks up. “So you got my letter?” _

_ “Yes. You’re not nice to yourself.”  _

_ “I shouldn’t be.” _

_ Eve holds her by the shoulders, firmly.  _

_ “We all fuck up, we all do the worst kinds of things, and we don’t even know why we do them sometimes. No one can ever be perfect. You shouldn’t think forgiveness is so out of the question.”  _

_ She can tell Villanelle is actually listening now.  _

_ “Forgiveness is all we have, V. It’s the only way to love someone. It’s the only way to make peace with anything. Grudges muddy everything.”  _

_ Suddenly, Villanelle flips herself over so she’s on top of Eve, and just hugs her closely. Eve sighs, rubbing her back.  _

_ “You make me feel so good,” Villanelle breathes out. Eve just hums in thought. _

_ “I met the postman outside.” _

_ “Very polite man, no?” _

_ “Very. My uh...my letter for you came.” _

_ Villanelle sits up, utter excitement brightening her features. “Would you read it to me?” _

_ Eve smiles. “Sure.” _

_ - _

_ Villanelle, teary-eyed, plucks the letter from Eve’s hand when she finishes reading it, and sets it on her nightstand before slowly maneuvering her mouth to Eve’s neck. She nibbles, kisses, and licks with indulgence, with one hand resting on Eve’s hip. Villanelle feels a shaky hand on her back pulling her closer, and then hesitating. She slowly drags her face away, searching for eyes.  _

_ “V, as good as this feels, I really want to be taking care of you right now. But you’re kinda bloody so…” _

_ Villanelle giggles and says, “Mm that’s never stopped you before.”  _

_ Eve flushes, burying her face in Villanelle’s chest for cover. “Stooooop,” she mumbles against her. _

_ “What was that? I can’t really hear you, Eve, you’re lost in my tits right now.” _

_ Eve suddenly jerks her head up and stares straight at her, with a red face. “Asshole, I want to devour you right now.” She slows her speech and her eyes adopt a gentler shine as they gaze down at Villanelle’s cleavage. “I wish I could get you to come by just playing with your tits. They’re gorgeous and big and they’re always on you and I think about them all the time and I honestly think it would be better if I had never seen them because then I’d at least get more slee-” _

_ Villanelle breaks the ramble by pulling Eve’s lips into her own. She licks into her mouth, and Eve whines, and it’s actual frustration not only from arousal. Eve is frustrated because she wants to take her and she can’t. Villanelle shivers letting that thought sink in.  _

_ As their lips continue gliding together, a dim light bulb shines in her head.  _

_ “Eve,” Villanelle breathes into the kiss. Eve pulls away by a few centimeters, still close enough for their noses to bump.  _

_ “Yeah? You okay?” _

_ “I just remembered something.” _

_ “What?” _

_ “In prison, I had a girlfriend.” _

_ Eve’s eyes roll. Villanelle promptly rubs her back, soothingly.  _

_ “Calm down. I just remembered that one night, she snuck into my cell. I was on my period like I am right now. She was desperate for it, so I went down on her and she came like three times, but afterward she really really really wanted to please me. She got her hands on my tits, and I tried to get her to stop because I knew if I got too worked up and couldn’t come it would actually hurt more than the cramps.” _

_ Eve’s eyes darken and she begins to subconsciously bite her lip. _

_ “But she just kept at it, eventually sucking my nipples and squeezing them and fondling my tits and suddenly I felt it building. And I came, Eve! Just from that!” Villanelle grins with victory as if relaying the tale of winning a spelling bee.  _

_ Eve just stares at her. “So, you’re saying I can take your bra off now?” _

_ - _

_ After bringing Villanelle to orgasm a whopping three times by simply mouthing and groping her tits, Eve watches her fall asleep. She had complained of cramps again shortly after the exertion, and then tried to fight off the pull of sleep, desperately wanting to return the favor. Eve shushed her, reassuring that there would be plenty of time for that, and kissed her forehead.  _

_ Eve slipped out of the house, walked down to the local pharmacy, and purchased three bottles of Pamprin, along with some electrolyte water, and a heating pad. Walking to the cashier, she passes a row of stationary, and stops in her tracks upon noticing a letter set with a cherry tree design. She brings it to the counter.  _

_ - _

_ When Villanelle wakes up, there is a card on the pillow next to her.  _

  
  
  


Granada, Andalusia

April 9

  
  


My sweet dream,

Sleep looks good on you. Maybe we have just been in a dream, this whole time. Nothing measures the time we spend together, nothing defines it, or interrupts it. I don’t hear the world when I’m with you. It used to be so loud. Now I just hear your voice - a soft hush. 

I like being quiet with you, just molding into you. We laugh all the time. We’re really good for each other, aren’t we? 

I won’t leave you, I won’t return to the noise. You’re the only thing I don’t want to run away from. 

Do you notice the sunlight on the walls? Look up. Look around. Nature is never an ideal - it is as real as it appears to be. The warm sky, the rows of flowers you planted, all know their purpose. To spend forever, reaching towards the light. It’s hard for humans to have that sort of certainty. But I’m beginning to feel it with you. 

Go back to sleep, if you’re still hurting. Or, come meet me on the couch. I’m still near. You don’t have to miss me now.

When you’re feeling better, we’ll sit on the hill. We’ll just sit where the world decides to dip and bend. There’s our field.

Love, 

Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> it's okay to have hope, it's okay to feel everything. be kind to each other, and to yourself. everything you feel is valid, always.♥
> 
> tumblr: prepxn


	7. when my hand moves the pen it remembers you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [smut heavy chapter. there is no excuse other than taylor swift's sexy new forest album. and it's that time of the month.]

_Eve does go back to London, eventually. She spends two weeks tucked into the clouds of Spain - gardening with Villanelle, shopping with Villanelle, sleeping with Villanelle, living with Villanelle. She never once finds herself getting sick of it all, because there is nothing to get sick of. It’s stupidly serene to sit on the couch with easy air filling her lungs and her eyes filling with the sight of Villanelle sliding around the house in her fuzzy socks. It’s a calm that is both strange and familiar; its essence is abundantly clear, but its edges are hazy and undefinable. It’s like a total union of everything treacherous and safe._

_Eve notices the low lines of light along the walls more than anything else. Spain is a bright expanse of colors and the house is always painted in golden hues. It’s nice to see the silver lining take shape around Villanelle’s face; it’s nicer to feel the warmth up close._

_Somewhere along the way of nursing Villanelle back to health (Eve has learned that her menstrual cycles are really from hell), a low simmer ignites just beneath her skin._

_It’s nice to be taking care of Villanelle. That’s the easy way to put it, at least. It’s nice to roll over and find her in the light, before coaxing her slowly towards consciousness. She likes how every part of Villanelle seems to reach towards her with clear intent. It’s sweet and soft - right down to the marrow._

_Nothing about it has any right to be, Eve knows. When she can’t make sense of it, when their shared kisses and casual touches almost jar her, she remembers the bridge. She remembers its sloping presence and its reassuring weight beneath her feet. Villanelle was right in her first letter: Eve likes to think of the bridge. In terms of settings, it’s the only one worth remembering. Their first scene absent of blood or resentment - even the signature passion had just softened into something else entirely. Something endearing, something that was worth taking care of. Something worth trying._

_So she’s in Spain, because that’s where Villanelle is. And it’s early one morning, when the sun is only a low suggestion, that Villanelle asks her to move in._

_“I think you like it here,” Villanelle whispers into the slightest inch of space between them on the bed. She’s completely wrapped around Eve, with her thumbs rubbing little circles into soft skin, and their legs intertwined in a way that is somehow graceful. “You like the hills, and my flowers, and the postman, and-”_

_“And maybe even you,” Eve cuts in with a sly grin turning up the corners of her mouth. Villanelle smiles in return, and it’s so light and pure and innocent that Eve sighs forward and finds soft lips to meet her own. They mold together completely, no longer any visible space casting a current between them, and sink down and down into the deep well of eros. Their hands connect only with the neutral zones of their bodies - back, hips, scalps, - but they’re gasping into each other nonetheless._

_“Mm...Eve,” Villanelle sighs, as she succumbs to the gentle pressure of Eve’s hand against her neck, relishing in the slow stroke of a thumb against her pulsepoint. Each touch is a surprise, purely because of the ease with which it overwhelms every nerve ending, and the way it calls upon the heart to consider new beauty. Villanelle finds herself shivering as Eve’s mouth moves to her neck; the noises leaving her mouth must be soft whines, a lone octave away from tears._

_“Try to stay still for me,” Eve whispers. Her tongue slips past her lips and starts a slow glide from Villanelle’s clavicles to her jawline, poking in and poking out, alternating between sucks and kisses. She loves the warm flavor of her skin, always imbued with her natural scent. Her mind rings with sensation before realizing Villanelle’s stare, and the way it shoots past her own pupils, settling deep within her being._

_“What-”_

_“Move in with me.” Villanelle’s head sways slightly upon releasing the words. She’s still caught in the buzz of the worship to her neck - almost as if she’s vibrating with it. Eve notices the shiver but doesn’t acknowledge it, having learned that it’s a point of vulnerability for Villanelle. She just lets the sight of it, and the fact of her being allowed to see it at all, pierce and lull her bones._

_Always distracted by dizzying warmth whenever they’re this close, Eve has to will herself to form a reaction to Villanelle’s request._

_“Really?”_

_Villanelle adopts that shimmering smile again. “Really, truly.” Her voice is smooth and skates over the r’s, purring into the air. Eve just bristles._

_“Okay. Yeah, okay,” and then Villanelle is on her, kissing all around her mouth before diving into her lips, with light chuckles escaping her all the while. She holds onto Eve’s hips with firm resolution, gripping lightly with her nails, just enough to afford Eve some friction. When she bucks upward, it’s as if the whole sky tilts, in the most delicious slope._

_“I’ll just need to go back to London,” Eve huffs under Villanelle’s weight. “To get my things.”_

_“Mhm,” Villanelle hums, starting a slow crawl down Eve’s chest, eyeing each nipple with red hunger._

_“And to...to, shit- to finalize the divorce.” Her breasts are bathed and tweaked with learned precision. Eve moans._

_“Mhm, lovely,” Villanelle purposely heightens her hums into vibrations against Eve’s taut nipples. She swirls her tongue around and around before biting down gently. The harshness is all down to Villanelle’s hands, that are now pushing Eve desperately into the bed by her hips._

_“And- fuck.”_

_Villanelle looks up. “You need to go back to London for that? I’m right here. Very disrespectful, Eve.”_

_Eve puffs out her cheeks in mock annoyance and becomes aware of just how hot her own face is. She brings a hand up to try and smooth away some of the red flush. Villanelle grasps her by the wrist, and then rolls her hips down._

_When she receives the groan she was looking for, she mutters, “Don’t hide that from me. I like to see it.”_

_Eve’s eyebrows scrunch up. “Like what?”_

_“How hot I make you,” Villanelle says, her voice ending in a whimper that has Eve’s eyes rolling to the back of her head. When Eve’s wrists are freed she grasps the sheets for support instead, as Villanelle shimmies down her body, making sure that she feels the weight of her bare breasts grazing over every inch of her. It’s close to a sob - the feeling bubbling in Eve’s chest._

_Villanelle licks her slow and hot, tongue stumbling over hardened grooves leisurely, as she herself had slumped against that wall in the entry-hall of Eve’s house, all those months ago. Everything else has been a bruising rush, but it’s nice to take her time here. The warm thighs closing around her head are utterly delicious and freeing, the more they tighten. She can feel Eve’s heartbeat here: rushed and swollen. Her licks develop a new intensity, with the new goal of molding into Eve’s pulse, until it becomes her own clock, the only thing dictating her time between life and death._

_Villanelle’s tongue flattens, curls, and flicks in rapid succession; a web of pleasure to distract from her hand’s intention. Two straightened fingers circle Eve’s entrance before sliding in with no preamble, and Villanelle momentarily worries that whatever strained noise has flown out of Eve’s mouth in response is a sign of choking. She slows her mouth and fingers and looks past wiry hair before locking eyes with Eve._

_“I’m okay- I’m” she gasps for air. “Keep going baby, I’m so close.”_

_The talking collapses into silence after that, as sweet sighs of mystified affection and need take over the atmosphere. Villanelle drills deeper and harder, her own chest heaving with hunger and pride, when she feels Eve tighten warmly around her fingers. Villanelle smirks against the increasing wetness and flutters her digits inside, until Eve is whining and throbbing, pushing her head gently away._

_Villanelle crawls up the bed and wraps an arm around Eve’s heaving front, enjoying the feel of pert nipples against the soft skin of her wrist. She drags her lips smoothly along Eve’s cheek before dropping her head next to hers on the sheets, snuggling close, breathing her in._

_When Eve’s breathing steadies, she turns towards the woman wrapped around her, and leans her forehead against hers._

_Vision is blurred at this proximity, but her eyes are gleaming._

_Eve swallows. “I really do love you, you know?”_

_Villanelle’s nose scrunches with glee and she trails a finger up and down Eve’s spine. “I know. I really know. You’re always here, Eve. And I love you too.”_

-

New Malden, London

April 24

Dear V,

It’s dark in London. It was dark when my flight got in last night, dark as I walked past slanted trees dripping with grey water, and dark in my bed - totally absent of you. It’s supposed to be spring now, right? It is where you are. Your flowers and the rolling hills are the easiest life. It’s all easy walking next to you. Your height, up against the scenery. It’s good to face the world with you. It always results in the best night’s sleep of my life.

I’m cleaning things up here, moving certain things into storage and printing shipping labels for other things, to be sent to you. I’ll sell some of the larger pieces of furniture, because I couldn’t bear to interrupt the aesthetic of your house. You deserve that space, wide and expansive. So full of light, all the time. Every corner whispering your name through the coils of dust. It always makes it through, I always hear it, even when it’s muffled. 

I miss you.

Do I have to stay PG in letters? I wanted to touch myself last night but I wanted you more. Your eyes and your mouth - never for a moment assume I’m not thinking of them, and what they’re attached to. Your body is the most beautiful extension of you, Vil. Don’t worry, I do think of your body and soul as a conclusive manifestation together, but when I separate them, I fall into a deeper awe. The way your sweetness lifts your cheeks. How when you’re sad, you grip me tighter and move closer to my hair. (I’m sorry, I know you don’t want me noticing these things). But I notice because I want to notice. Because I learn you more that way. All these little pieces of you filling all kinds of crevices inside me. 

I can’t ever lose you. I don’t know where my body would run to, where my soul would fall. There isn’t life apart from you, and I don’t think there ever has been. Simple as that. 

It’s grey and cold again, and I won’t sleep. But I can think of you, can’t I? I’ll roll over and wrestle with empty sheets; wrinkle them, and turn them into something with flaws, something human. 

I’ll think of our shared flaws, and why the hell they’re so beautiful. 

(I think it’s thanks to you.)

Love,

Eve

Granada, Andalusia

April 30

Sweet Eve,

I love you, and it’s your house too, now. 

I love you. 

Do you ever think about the way words look? I used to think of language only as a way to gather information and knowledge. But you just described the way my cheeks move, so I think I can be just as goopy. Now, I think language is about connection. It’s our thoughts materializing and moving towards each other on a page. When my hand moves the pen it remembers you. I know I said I’d like to paint you, but, if I could paint, I don’t think I would. I can only get close to what you are through words. 

Yes, send all your things here. I’ll bring it all in, even your turtlenecks. I can’t wait to carry it all in, through the door. Out of the world and into our space. I can organize everything for you, if you want. I’d like to, you know. 

I think the cherry tree misses you. He’s the same small sprout he was when you left, but I think he manned up a bit and grew a little leaf. It waves a little, in the wind. It points at the clouds, probably wondering where your plane is. It’s a little pathetic of him, I know, but I might join him one of these days. Waiting for Eve. It sounds like a nice hobby. 

I am sorry for the weather in London. Do not let your hair frizz too much, it’s not good for it. And you cannot blame me for snuggling into your hair, especially when I am feeling a certain way. You don’t see it the way the rest of us do. It’s bouncy and flowy and frames a lovely face. I think we should bottle it, just to be safe.

I think flaws may be the only way to beauty. Perfection is an ugly, contrived thing. You cannot do anything with it. It has no past, nothing worth remembering or sharing. Answer me this Eve: why are ruins always so drenched in light? The sun casts its spotlight where it sees the most destruction. And then it heals. And then it’s beautiful. 

No, I haven’t slept either. I won’t until you’re back here, with the sun finding our bed, and the baby cherry tree pointing towards the sky. 

Believe me,

Yours faithfully,

Oksana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for this late upload, my mind has been caught in a pretty little cocktail of unproductiveness and a complete lack of creativity as of late. as always, thank you so so so much for the continued support on this fic, and i hope you enjoyed!


	8. where have you been?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve is all moved in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Emerges from cave* 
> 
> Welcome back.

Granada, Andalusia

May 15

Sweet Eve,

Where have you been, love?

Outside, playing in the dirt with me, or are you in bed? Have you been there all night? Where else have you spent your life?

I know I drank too much last night - I know you were nervous. I guess it’s knowing that home involves you now. The chase is gone because it isn’t possible to find or discover what you already live in. Eve, there you are. Your socks on the hardwood, little strands of hair on the patio, your smile by the window. I’ve always wanted home to feel like a picture frame - something built, used, completed. I’ve carried it around with me, house to house. Different cities painting its glass, distorting and redefining its colors.

You’ll look for it, now. You won’t find it in storage, Eve. On that wall by the door, safe from the sun and housed by a kind shadow, I’ve hung it up. It deserves its own spot now, and guess what? It’s covering up a slash on the wall, a blemish and a nail-hole, left behind undoubtedly by some old frame. You’d think the house would bleed with a cut like that. You’d think it could never be quiet again, never know silence and light on the floor. But, Eve, I hung up the frame you helped me complete, and it’s quiet here, isn’t it?

We’re very close now. So I drank.

I was afraid of the proximity, Eve. Afraid of only spoken words. Can letters only serve distance? I can’t lose that with you. Maybe it’s redundant now, stupid and unnecessary, but it’s meant a lot to me all this time. It means something, you writing me letters.

You wanted the wine, I wanted the gin. I asked you to grab the glasses at the very top of the shelf, just so I could see your back arch. There’s so much you remind me of, but some things only became memories once you came along: Russian lilies, gleaming lakes, sewing kits. Before, they only fit into the pain, reinforcing what I’ve never seemed able to get away from. Then, I felt you. Then, I wanted to remember.

There’s so much I shouldn’t have done. There’s so much I should do, for you. Before and after.

I’ll control myself, I’ll do better, for you. You said you just didn’t want me to hurt myself, didn’t want me to get sick. And I loved you, so hard, last night. I think that scared you too.

This morning, I’m telling myself that I can still write to you. So I won’t miss you so much, even when you’re right next to me. Please don’t blame me, Eve. I miss the lost time. I’m angry - harassed by the lifetimes without you. That’s what I mean, when I say “where have you been?” Where has life been hiding you? Why couldn’t I find you earlier?

You’re such a vision. “Beautiful” leaves so much unsaid.

If I neglected the flowers yesterday, it’s because of you. They know that. It’s the first thing I told them. My only disclaimer: prone to run away with Eve. Nothing is responsible but the way our eyes meet.

Sorry again, baby.

Believe me,

Yours faithfully,

Oksana

-

_When Villanelle sneaks into the bedroom, to leave the letter by Eve’s pillow, the bed is empty. She calls out, once, twice, then walks wearily back into the hallway. In the corner of her eye, she sees a leg poking out the bathroom door._

-

_Eve and Villanelle sit cross-legged, facing each other across the linoleum floor. Eve’s elbow is bent leaning against the tub’s lip, with one finger twirling a strand of hair, and eyes trained intently on the woman in front of her. An almost empty bottle of vodka leans against her knee, the neck of which she continuously twirls between her two free fingers._

_Villanelle smiles. “Feeling it, Eve?” Then, in a more serious tone, “You did not have to prove this to me, you know. I was the asshole.”_

_Eve lifts her head slowly, fishing it out of the warmth of her alcohol infused daze to look at Villanelle. Her eyes are already dark with the airiness of a buzz, vision ecstatic and blurred by a source of further pleasure sitting right in front of her. In one quick movement, the bottle is overturned and leaking onto the tile, and Eve is crawling across the short expanse of the bathroom._

_She lands, both hands on Villanelle’s thighs, and her own head swaying dangerously in the direction of the tub. Whispers leave her mouth in a lazy stream of incoherence (and indulgence). Although the essence is undefinable, Villanelle can hear the hoarseness of Eve’s voice molding into every word, likely a result of her breathiness._

_“Hey, you want to smack your head?” Villanelle giggles and holds up Eve’s cheeks so they’re eye-to-eye. She’s about to make another joke, wants to quote a comment made the previous night about someone holding their liquor like a Russian, when Eve’s dramatically puckered lips scoot forward, missing their mark and landing on her nose, causing Eve to groan in frustration._

_“Mmm where’s your mouth, baby?”_

_(Villanelle has noticed this about Eve, in the week she’s been moved in, that alcohol can render her messy, affectionate, needy. She’s joked that it’s a product of all those years of repressed, straight sex with the mustache; this possessiveness that Eve feels towards her. Eve always bats these words away, but she finds she can’t contest them in her mind)._

_And, this is the drunkest she’s ever seen Eve._

_“A little farther south, Eve, but we’re not going to go there, okay? I don’t want you puking in my mouth.”_

_“You just don’t wanna kiss me...you can just say it,” Eve slurs and bats Villanelle’s shoulder with her fist, leaning her forehead against pale skin._

_Villanelle smooths her hands down her back, intentional in her movements as strictly comforting. Eve rocks forward, sighs into her neck, and mewls._

_“Eve.”_

_A small mumble, vibrating softly against her sternum is the only response._

_“What was that?”_

_Eve turns her head to the side, cheek squished against Villanelle._

_“Why would I throw up? You’re really pretty!”_

_A strong laugh rips its way out of Villanelle, causing Eve to almost fall back from the reverberations._

_“Okay, I’m taking you to bed now, Eve.”_

_“Villanelle,” (although, it slurs out more like Vivabelle) “my mouth or my fingers first?”_

_Arms wrapped around her waist and pulling her gently up, Villanelle says, “You can do whatever you want in dreamland. Can you walk by yourself?”_

_Eve steps forward and immediately falters, gripping onto Villanelle’s shoulders._

_“I thought about this...in Rome,” Eve speaks hurriedly, as if trying to run towards and away from some singular thought, “Thought you’d come back, help me up. Put your hand on my shoulder and stop the blood...thought you’d make it stop...thought you’d come back…”_

_Villanelle just tightens her grip, wanting to stabilize her._

_“I didn’t know where you went...I didn’t want you to leave without me…” Then, the tears._

_“Shhh, you’re safe, you’re here,” Villanelle rubs her back with considerable pressure, trying to keep her own emotions at bay. It’s a conversation they’ve revolved around before, always reducing them both to tears and fervent cries of “I love you’s” and “I’m sorry’s”; even scratching the surface of this subject exhausts them._

_It’s clear, though, how Eve needed this._

_Villanelle supports her as they walk the short distance to the bedroom, her heart aching at every small sob Eve releases. She gently presses their foreheads together, rolling her head slightly, trying to convey her devotion. Eve arches into her, responding to the movements._

_Villanelle fluffs the pillows, spritzes some of her own perfume along the sheets, knowing how Eve used to do this herself. She pulls the cover back, tucks her in. Slipping in beside Eve, she wraps around her, as close as possible._

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“Don’t, Eve.”_

_“I know it hurts us to talk about this.”_

_“Baby, you just drank too much, it’s okay. I want you to sleep this off.”_

_Eve hums, relaxing into Villanelle’s arms._

_“Do you have a letter for me?”_

_Villanelle laughs, burying her face into curly hair. “Nothing slips by you, huh?”_

_“Not something like that. Did you write it this morning?”_

_“Mhm, while I was reviving from my own hangover.”_

_Eve stiffens and says, “I didn’t mean to be weird last night. You’re allowed to drink.”_

_“Shh, no I should’ve respected you. I never want to make you uncomfortable.”_

_Eve shifts again, before completely turning over in her arms. She connects their lips instantly, and it’s sweet, bright._

_“I love you, V.”_

_“I love you too, Eve.” She smirks, and then, “If we’re talking about Rome, let’s always remember that I said it first.”_

-

Granada, Andalusia

May 15

Dear V,

Where have I been?

Is that what you want to know?

I’ve been in your doubts.

Those moments when you were unsure. When Konstantin felt like your family, when your own family felt wrong, but in the saddest, most evocative way. When you killed that boy in the hospital, because he told you about his pain.

When you offered me a choice, above rushing water, on a bridge at night.

Those things that Villanelle doubted, but Oksana knew? There I am.

There’s a lot of kindness in you, and so much gentleness. I don’t care what else it is wrapped up in. It’s all you.

There may be more of a gap between those two people now, but you’re more you now. Infinitely more. It pours out of you now. I love seeing you like this, being yourself, and enjoying it.

I will still write letters to you, and still receive them. It’s that give and take. It’s what we’ve always been good at.

Let’s keep talking. We don’t need alcohol for that. I mold into you most when I’m sober anyway.

Love,

Eve

P.S. I’m glad you said it first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> allow me to apologize PROFUSELY for this hiatus. over the past few weeks, i've received some unbelievably kind messages from readers of this fic, and i knew i had to prioritize getting a new chapter up. that being said, i'm not super happy with this chapter. i haven't written creatively in a while, as i've been back in school and working on applications for grad school (soul-crushing). but i did really enjoy writing this. 
> 
> i rewatched 3x08 to get back into the manic headspace that i have so missed, and was brought to tears once again by the ballroom and bridge scenes. (which resulted in my mom giving me a look i haven't received since may. it's good to be back). 
> 
> as always, thank you thank you thank you for the continued support, and i hope you enjoyed!
> 
> i'm on tumblr @prepxn


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